


Confusing Circles of Hell with Stages of Grief

by thericketandoo



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Culmets - Freeform, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-22 11:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thericketandoo/pseuds/thericketandoo
Summary: Skip Steps 1-4. Begin with Step 5: Acceptance. Now, return to the start.Paul Stamets begins to question whether having his dead partner break the news to him was the closure he needed or the beginning of his own personal Hell.





	1. Anger/Wrath

“Stamets? Is that you?”

“Drew _fucking_ Demiter,” Paul growls to himself, pretending not to hear the voice calling after him. He now realizes he’s left the ceremony going the wrong direction a second too late, and there’s no avoiding a conversation. Hastily, he stuffs Hugh’s medal in his pocket.

“You’re not dead!”

“Unfortunately,” Paul rolls his eyes, turning around to face _Captain_ Andrew Demiter, former classmate and current pain in the ass.

“You got a promotion,” Demiter grins, glancing at Paul’s newly upgraded Starfleet delta.

“For surviving the war.”

“And the medal of honor?”

Paul hates himself for not taking it off before leaving the hall. “For ending it, I suppose,” Paul bites back at Demiter.

Demiter raises his eyebrows for a moment, impressed. “Good for you.” He brushes off his shoulder, clearly trying to draw Paul’s attention to his uniform. “In case you didn’t notice, I got a promotion, too.”

“Really?” Paul says sarcastically. “Actually, considering how many captains they’ve lost, it’s unsurprising. They’d give just about anyone with a _pulse_ a command post.”

“I know right?” Demiter laughs heartily, Paul’s tone clearly lost on him.

Paul makes a move to leave when Demiter grabs him on the shoulder.

“Hey, where’s your partner in crime?”

Paul’s face twists into a look of pure hatred. “Which one? Oh wait, the answer’s the same for both.”

“I- uh, your lab partner, Straal, was it?” Demiter asks, caught off guard.

Paul tears himself from Demiter’s grasp. “He’s fucking dead, Demiter - Have you been paying any fucking attention?”

“What? Am I supposed to keep up with the status of every person in Starfleet?” Demiter asks indignantly. “There’s been a war going on, you know.”

“Thank you for reminding me.”

“Lots of people have died.”

“I fucking noticed, but if you had any shred of humanity you might have taken the time to read the memo the came out _almost a year ago_ in regards to the _Glenn_ being destroyed along with everyone on board, including Straal.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s a lot to keep track of!”

“Six of our classmates were on that ship.”

“That file was classified, Stamets! I didn’t have access to any of that report, so I pushed it aside, and moved on.”

Paul can’t deny it gives him the tiniest bit of satisfaction knowing that even being a captain doesn’t afford Demiter access to his research.

“I’m sorry about Straal.”

“Me too.”

“What about Culber? You two still together?”

“No.” Paul grits his teeth for a moment, considering whether decking Demiter is worth the punishment he’d receive as a result. “We tried the whole long-distance relationship thing, but it didn’t work. He never wrote or called. It was extremely one-sided.”

“Sorry about that, Paul.”

Paul shakes his head in disbelief. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re still the same tactless, pompous, self-absorbed _clueless_ asshole you’ve always been. You pay absolutely no attention to anything that doesn’t benefit or serve a purpose to you, and you’re such a goddamn idiot that you can’t even tell what those things are half the time.”

“You’re out of line, Stamets.”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ ,” Paul laughs humorlessly. “Hugh’s _dead,_ so now I have absolutely _zero_ people left whose reputations hinge on my behavior being the perfect _fucking_ model of Starfleet expectations. You want to reprimand me? Fine. _I fucking dare you_ , but no matter what happens to me you’ll still be a _shit_ captain who only became one because he was lucky enough to survive when thousands of others did not. How the _fuck_ does that feel, Drew?”

Demiter stares at Paul in stunned silence as he watches him push past him to leave.

Paul rips off his medal, turning back to face Demiter as he walks away backwards. “Hey, maybe if you keep sucking Starfleet’s _dick_ they’ll return the favor one day,” he snears, dropping the medal on the floor, “But I doubt it.”

Captain Demiter shouts after Paul, but doesn’t dare chase him down.

 

_God, that felt good._


	2. Acceptance/Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul attends Hugh’s funeral back on earth.

It’s the morning of Hugh Culber’s funeral, and Paul Stamets is nine months late.

Unless, maybe, everyone else was nine months too early.

Most present today had already taken their opportunity to mourn Hugh, along with the entire crew of _Discovery_ , nine months ago when the ship had jumped into Terran hell.

The field of rubble _Discovery_ ’s Imperial counterpart left in their _Discovery_ ’s wake gave Starfleet what seemed like undeniable proof that everyone was dead, so naturally Starfleet went through all the motions, just as they’d done for every other ship lost in the war. Families were notified, a memorial was held (probably shamefully tied to the memorial of six other ships lost in the same week), and the battle went on.

After all of that, it’s truly miraculous that _Discovery_ resurfaced and with almost every member of the crew they believed to be lost alive and unharmed.

Almost every member.

Paul doesn’t want to be here. Paul _thinks_ he doesn’t need to be here. It’s not as though he can even begin to explain to anyone why he feels it’s not necessary for him. _We’ve already said goodbye_ comes off as insane even to him, even if it’s true.

It’s not as though he’s spiritual or anything, right? Saying he’s seen Hugh since he died makes Paul sound like he believes in something. Paul’s not even sure he believes in anything, especially not now, and definitely not in something like _this_.

Of course it’s fucking beautiful outside today in San Francisco. Three days of sunshine a year and it’s during Hugh’s fucking funeral.

Being here with all these people, all of Hugh’s family and friends, closely resembles his latest nightmares. The only difference here being that everyone in the waking world spares Paul from what they’re actually thinking.

_Why him and not you? Why did everyone else survive and not him? You don’t deserve this._

The irony isn’t lost on Paul, of course, wearing the dress uniform to celebrate the life of the man whose life was ripped away from him by the very organization that put it on him, but it’s not as though he could have worn something else. Not unless he was willing to hang up his uniform all together.

That would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it?

Paul is supposed to give a eulogy. That’s what people do. Not giving one sends the message that maybe he didn’t care enough, or maybe if he were anyone else they’d think the pain of loss is just too much for him to put into words.

He’s not anyone else though. He’s Paul Stamets, so they’ll think he’s some emotionally disconnected asshole unable to tap into his feelings for the sake of remembering his dead lover.

_Well, fuck them_ , he thinks. _Who are they to judge?_ Hugh would have said something, he knows, but Paul’s too stubborn even now for a dead man to guilt him into leaving the false safety of his silence.

As much as he wants to, Paul can’t justify running away from Hugh’s family. After everyone gives their devastating speeches while Paul stares blankly at his feet, focusing every part of himself on appearing at least vaguely human he forces himself to give his condolences to Hugh’s siblings and parents.

The look Hugh’s mother gives Paul after hugging him for longer than either of them really wanted says everything he knows she would never say out loud. _The only reason Hugh was on Discovery is because you were on Discovery_.

Once it’s over, Paul makes his way back to their mostly empty apartment. _His_ mostly empty apartment. It seemed pointless to get things out of storage for only a few days back home, and (if he’s being honest with himself) he’d like to limit the amount of Hugh-related memories he’s bombarded with on a daily basis.

Something about listening to people, some Paul barely (if at all) knew, go on and on about how wonderful Hugh was and how much he’ll be missed left Paul feeling more numb than he had been since Hugh died.

Of course Hugh was wonderful. He was a fucking amazing doctor, a goddamn _genius_ , a caring and passionate son, brother, friend and lover, and an excellent Starfleet officer. His smile was genuine and his voice could calm anyone. Everyone had happy or humorous memories to share, and nothing anyone said was even a slight exaggeration. Hugh was an incredible person, but Hugh is still dead.

_Are memories all that’s left of you?_ Paul thinks, glancing around the barren apartment. _Is this **really** how it ends?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Kay and Kayleigh for your feedback and editing expertise! I think I’ve finally figured out where I’m going with this. Maybe. Feedback is bliss!


	3. Denial/Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul wakes up alone, and it's apparent that Hugh's absence is felt more deeply in some ways than others.

Paul wakes up with a jolt. A familiar wave of nausea hits him like he’s been punched in the gut as he stumbles out of bed toward the bathroom. When had sex dreams become nightmares?

There are the normal nightmares featuring various reimaginings of Hugh’s death over and over, and then there are the _other_ nightmares. A month ago these would have just been dreams. Good dreams, even. Dreaming about having sex with Hugh doesn’t have the same effect anymore now that Paul has to wake up alone.

His life obviously has to move on. Paul gets that, and he knows a counselor is on hand to help him work through that, but he can’t even begin to imagine looking someone in the eye and asking them when the appropriate time is to start having sex with other people, and then at what point will it not make him feel like shit.

Maybe he should have just asked Hugh when he was allowed to start dating again or, even better, when he would be able to fuck someone else without thinking of him, and if he was supposed to feel bad about enjoying it.

(What if it’s... never? What if that’s the curse of living on when the person you loved has died? The dead can’t have orgasms, so why should the living have the privilege?)

 _Shit_ , why hadn’t he thought of it when he had the chance? He’d had Hugh in their bedroom one last time. They should have taken the opportunity. If Hugh could kiss Paul out of his coma, he probably could have fucked him awake, too.

The most embarrassing part of the whole thing is that he can’t even masturbate. Well, he _can_ and he has, but it’s absolute shit every time. Thinking about Hugh is depressing, to say the least, but thinking about something or someone else still feels like cheating.

Paul avoids looking in the bathroom mirror as he makes his way to the shower and steps inside. He was hoping for a cold shower, but apparently the Starfleet standard for their vessels includes temperature-controlled showers, so he’ll have to settle with leaning against the cold, sterile steel of the shower wall. He closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against the wall.

_Hugh presses himself against Paul as he drags a hand up his inner thigh. “Feeling better?” Hugh breathes against Paul’s neck._

_Paul can tell Hugh is smiling. “Not yet.”_

_“Then let me help you.”_

“Fuck,” Paul groans. He opens his eyes as he bounces his forehead on the shower wall. For a moment none of it felt like a memory. Even merely entertaining the thought of Hugh being alive and here with him right now made him inexplicably hot.

 _You shouldn’t deny yourself pleasure on my behalf._ The voice inside his head sounds eerily like Hugh’s, but Paul isn’t crazy enough yet to give in to that notion.

“Hugh is dead,” Paul says to himself out loud, as if it might banish whatever emotions he’s having that threaten to take over, but it doesn’t work. One second later, his eyes are closed again, and he slips right back into his memories, his hands filling in the blanks Hugh’s absence left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't really been in the mindset to work on this, but I figured I'd get this little chapter out of the way. (I'm also mourning the loss of many of my headcanons post the new comic, so I have to deal with that, too.) Kay helped me edit it, as usual. I promise this will be finished eventually, but I can't say that will be anytime soon. Thanks for bearing with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how long this will be, OR where I’m going with it, but hopefully I figure that out. Feedback is nice. Find me on tumblr: cerebrosbeforehoes


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